


this pumps through his heart

by santanico



Category: Almost Human
Genre: Fights, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Kitchen Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:30:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/santanico/pseuds/santanico
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dorian –” John starts, but Dorian is striding out the apartment door. John stumbles over to the door and throws it open, only seconds after Dorian had slammed it shut, but Dorian is already in the elevator and the door is closing and then he’s gone, and John cringes. A pain shoots through his leg and he whispers “Fuck,” before turning around back into his apartment and closing the door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this pumps through his heart

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Português brasileiro available: [Isso bombeia por seu coração](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4695146) by [Rosetta (Melime)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melime/pseuds/Rosetta)



> As inspired by Lena. It got a little more in depth than I meant for it to be, but I'm pleased that it's finished and I had enough inspiration TO finish it.

_It was an accident_. Whenever John thinks about how he’ll explain sleeping with a robot to whomever eventually finds out, that’s all he can think of. That it just sort of happened, accidentally, without any forethought, imagination, premeditation. It’s the absolute best he can come up with, even as he eats cereal at five in the morning in the dark and contemplates the idea.

 _God_ , he thinks, _If Valerie found out. If anyone found out_. John knows that, at the very least, he would be fired – sleeping with a synthetic is unprofessional at best. It wouldn’t help that he would almost certainly be mocked by his former colleagues, that the truth would be a stain on his honor, already sullied. The thought is horrific on its own, let alone with introspection on how all this shit came to be. 

For the most part, John doesn’t complain. He doesn’t have a lot to complain about.

It helps that Dorian is so at ease already. Dorian seems _happy_ \- it’s the way he walks, his observations, his loose smile and teasing comments. He has interest, and depth, and he’s funny and he has a personality. He’s smart too, beyond the intelligence of a machine. His ability to perceive the thoughts of both humans and ‘bots, to understand their motivation, is almost unbelievable. Dorian is clear of any dirt and blood from a past riddled with murder and distrust, unlike most cops, and he doesn’t have the same lack of recognition of the range of emotion that the other ‘bots have.

Push comes to shove, John could explain that. To someone who really knows. It’s just like falling in love with anyone at the office. Dorian is funny. He’s kind, and passionate. That’s why John is sleeping with him – right?

Dorian keeps those thoughts at bay by being a surprisingly good kisser, and wringing orgasms out of John with the ease of twisting water out of a washcloth. There’s something immensely satisfying about Dorian’s open mouth, the wetness of his kisses. It’s sort of like Dorian has all the experience and virtues of a man who appears to be in their late twenties or early thirties, but with the sincerity of someone much wiser. When he touches John, it’s with some kind of absolute strength of mind.

At this point, not too long after their partnership had begun, John spends most of his nights tucked in bed next to Dorian, who breathes deeply in his sleep and sometimes snores. As John understands it, the mechanics are complicated – with DRN models, charging can occur in what is maintained as a more “human” way, as through sleep. He doesn’t have batteries, and, much like the newer models, solar energy provides for part of his processing. DRNs recharge in much the same way as most mammals do though; for John, it’s comforting. Sometimes he jerks awake from nightmares with Dorian lying next to him, an arm over his own stomach, snoozing quietly. John has caught himself staring at Dorian as he sleeps and wondering if Dorian knows, at some deep sub or unconscious level, that John does this. If Dorian does know, he never comments on it.

The scariest thing for John is that he doesn’t know what to say about what they’re doing. Dorian seems happy to be called his ‘partner’ and never brings up terms that would imply any kind of romanticism, or even sexual partnership. John doesn’t want to even think about it, or consider the fact that “robot” and “boyfriend” are words that could even be said in the same sentence, especially not together. “Partners” seems to work, implying something deeper than their relationship as cops without necessarily blatantly admitting to it.

Dorian makes him breakfast on a Sunday morning.

“You’re up early,” John comments, rubbing at his face as he sits down at the kitchen. Dorian is humming at the stove and the eggs sizzle in the pan.

“And you’re up just in time, I was about to go in and wake you.”

Dorian glances at the wall-clock. “It’s only seven.”

“I’ve been awake since six,” Dorian says, clicking the stove off and picking up the pan. “Do you like cheese in your eggs? Hm. I guess I should have asked that before I made them. I can still melt some cheese if you want.”

John stares. “No, that’s okay, I’ll…take some toast though?” He isn’t sure how to react to the fact that Dorian is scurrying around the kitchen, opening cupboards because he still doesn’t know where everything is. He grabs the bread and unwraps the packaging, placing two pieces into the aged toaster in the corner of the kitchen counters.

“Why are you making me breakfast?” John asks just as Dorian is setting down a plate of buttered toast and warm eggs.

“You can put the eggs on the toast if you want. I think that would be interesting. I don’t really know, though,” Dorian admits with a shrug, sitting across from John at the kitchen table. “I heard you wake up earlier in the morning. You didn’t stay awake and watch me this time, but I felt your tension.” Dorian pauses when he sees John glaring at him. “Ah, I’m sorry. Inappropriate breakfast conversation. How are your eggs?”

“I haven’t even eaten them yet.”

“Oh.”

The kitchen stays quiet for a long moment as John starts his home cooked breakfast and Dorian waits, hands folded on the table. His feet are still on the floor, though in John’s head they’re swinging back and forth.

“I have nightmares. Yeah. Didn’t know you knew. Didn’t know you could tell.”

Dorian nods but says nothing.

“The eggs are good. You got a cookbook programmed up there?”

Dorian smiles. “No, but scrambled eggs and toast aren’t exactly on a list of things that require too much skill,” he says, shoulders relaxing. John stands up and gets orange juice from the refrigerator, pouring himself a glass. “If you want to, you can tell me whatever’s bothering you, you know. I am a _very_ good listener, and I can give you practical and logical advice.”

John gives an affirmative grunt and sits down again, gulping the juice. He hasn’t had a real breakfast since before the coma – with every day, he’s realizing just how many things he hasn’t done yet. He can feel Dorian’s eyes until they begin to stray naturally.

“You got any advice on how to end PTSD night terrors?” Best to be honest.

“Well, what kind of advice are you looking for?” Dorian murmurs, and he’s watching John again. “Do you want the practical, or do you want the kind? Mileage may vary.”

That’s how it starts – the opening up.

-

It becomes a problem when John’s tongue slips. He says things he shouldn’t and he cringes and mostly, Dorian just laughs because John is a person and people make mistakes. Dorian trips up every once in a while too, often during sex – of any kind. He makes bad puns after blowjobs, reacts almost mechanically to being touched himself. Dorian doesn’t have programming for sexual situations the way “sexbots” do, and everything he says, every little reaction, is completely natural.

It makes things hard sometimes, but it’s also new, and exciting, and those things are just as good. John learns how to crack a grin, and even laugh. The first time he goes down on Dorian, Dorian’s reaction is a notably unsexy “Oh. Hummm. That’s interesting.” Dorian is almost too-human in everything he does, and the sex experience is questionable at first – before John agrees to touch Dorian, he makes sure that yes, he can come, and yes, it’s almost identical to human orgasm – but ends well. For the most part.

John’s insecurity is front and center in his own mind when he thinks back on their nights spent together, but when it’s the two of them intertwined nothing else seems to matter. Dorian understands, perhaps better than anyone. His skin is cool against John’s, his lips air light when they feather across John’s good thigh, and then his not-so-good thigh. Dorian never outright mentions the synthetic leg, but John can tell from Dorian’s touches – the almost-feeling that strikes through John’s core when Dorian brushes his fingers on the inside of the synthetic leg – that he damn near worships it. It connects them on a level that John can’t explain, and he wouldn’t want to anyway.

John doesn’t always say the right thing, is the problem at large. Dorian is sensitive to touch, sound, taste, everything. He responds to emotional situations with something close to vigor, and his compassion and sense of self is what makes him so delicious most of the time. John doesn’t _forget_ that Dorian doesn’t fit into the supposed category of human, but sometimes he does forget that insensitivity is insensitivity, regardless of sexual activity.

“Ya know, sometimes,” John starts one morning, rolling his shoulders and chuckling to himself. “It’s like lovin’ a blow-up doll. One of those old-fashioned toys they used to sell to horny guys – still do for guys who can’t afford those fancy sexbots nowadays.” To John, the comparison is funny. He doesn’t think about it before he says it, and he’s still laughing to himself when he looks at Dorian and sees his expression.

“Oh,” Dorian says, and a chill spreads through the room. “I see.”

“Dorian –” John starts, but Dorian is striding out the apartment door. John stumbles over to the door and throws it open, only seconds after Dorian had slammed it shut, but Dorian is already in the elevator and the door is closing and then he’s gone, and John cringes. A pain shoots through his leg and he whispers “Fuck,” before turning around back into his apartment and closing the door.

“Fuck,” he says again, walking over to the window. He can see Dorian now, walking into the street and hailing a cab. He winces, face heated and leg burning too, as Dorian gets into the vehicle. John sits down and groans. Monday is not going to go well.

-

And it doesn’t.

Dorian greets John at the door with paperwork for a case that doesn’t require much _except_ paperwork.

“I’ll be monitoring the files, if you need me,” Dorian says, and John tries to move his head and force eye contact but Dorian is damn good at not looking at him. They’re too surrounded in the crowded precinct for John to take a risk and call him out, so instead he pats Dorian on the shoulder, feels Dorian twitch, and confirms.

He spends the day sitting at his desk, shoulders hunched as he works through data and glances at his phone every fifteen seconds. The device rings twice, once a solicitor – how the fuck do they keep getting his goddamn number? – and once Valerie, who asks how things are going. It takes John a minute to compose himself and realize she’s asking about the case and not Dorian.

“It’ll take a couple of days. The hackers are good, as they usually are,” he admits, referring to the data he’d been collecting on a group of underground hackers who have been attempting bank robberies through new software programs over the last few months. “They’ve managed to get through the first few layers without being detected. That in itself should earn them some credit. But, their codes are good. Their encryption systems are good.”

“Have you talked to Dorian about it?”

“Uh, Dorian?” John clears his throat. “He’s…busy.”

“Uh huh.” Valerie snaps her gum as if to make a point and John frowns, wondering if she’s raising her eyebrows at him on the other line. “Well, maybe you should talk to him, ask him what he thinks. Isn’t he just running the code through a system online? Any computer can do that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” John says, rolling his eyes. “I’ll ask the damn robot, okay?”

He hears Valerie starting to laugh and accuse him of something, he’s sure, but he’s already hung up. He likes her because she’s nice, and funny, and cute, but right now just isn’t the damn time. Five minutes later, ignoring her advice, he feels guilty for hanging up.

He takes a pill for the head pain, as well as for his leg. Dorian’s advice from when they had first partnered up had helped, at least with the mechanics, but mostly the pain was still damn near unbearable, especially when it flared up. Which it had been doing more recently. Still, John stands and head over to Dorian’s own personal desk, where he’s sat silently. The blue lights in his cheeks are going bonkers, creating mesmerizing patterns under his skin that catch John off guard. It’s beautiful.

“H-hey.”

Dorian looks up. He doesn’t smile or frown, his shoulders don’t bunch up. Nothing about him changes from “Raking-Through-Files-Dorian” to “Talking-To-John-Dorian”. It’s worse than if Dorian had glared at him, or refused to meet his gaze.

“How can I help you?”

John presses his lips together to avoid snapping at Dorian for using his most mechanical tone. It has to be on purpose, but at this point John is also too stubborn to point it out and admit his own fault. He’s waited too long, and the embarrassment is bad enough. He just wants it to blow over – Dorian has to know, after all the time they’ve spent together already, that John doesn’t think he’s a sex doll. John’s missing a limb himself, for God’s sake – why does he have to apologize for making one stupid comment?

“So, this case,” John started, faking casual even though his leg and head are still throbbing, almost in tune, “I’ve noticed a couple of patterns popping up but I can’t crack it, and neither can my computer.”

“You’re right, I’ve had no luck.”

John glares. “Don’t get sarcastic. I mean my desk computer.”

Dorian stares. “I wouldn’t know how to be sarcastic.”

John sucks in a breath and forges on. “Okay, point is, I need – I would really appreciate if you would look at it, too? You know, from a…” He trails off, thinks _Shit_ , because he doesn’t want to make things somehow worse. “From your perspective,” he amends. That’s fair.

Dorian seems to accept it because he doesn’t make another sidelong comment, instead turning and focusing. A holograph lights up of the same files John had been looking at from his desk.

“I’ll get right on it.” His tone is dismissive.

“Can we talk?”

Dorian spares him a half-glance and then shakes his head. “We are on duty.”

John swallows down a sigh. “Okay then, how about after work?” he says, lilting his voice to force a positive tone. “We can go – to my place. Maybe. If you want.” He backpedals, running a hand through his hair and leaning against Dorian’s desk. His legs are so damned tired, still. He doesn’t think he’ll ever actually get used to only having one real one.

Dorian is watching him with an expression that John can’t quite touch when he catches him. Dorian looks away. So does John.

“I don’t see why we can’t just talk outside the building. Then you can go home and rest, and I can stay here and recharge. A perfect night.”

Every ounce of will goes into not groaning. Half of it’s the pain, and half of it’s the pain in the ass in front of him. Dorian’s not even cracking a small smile, which seems like it’d be against his programming to begin with.

“We can do whatever you want, alright? Thanks for looking at that paperwork, call me or come over if you find anything else out, alright?”

Dorian nods without making eye contact.

John starts to wonder if this is worth the effort.

-

To his surprise, Dorian is leaning against John’s car when he gets outside.

“I was looking for you,” John says, frowning. He had expected to see Dorian throughout the day, at least once, but Dorian hadn’t called him or visited. He hadn’t give any indication of a change in choice, and John had waited at the front door, expecting Dorian to show up for a short chat where they decide to never speak again outside of work. Dorian is buttoning and unbuttoning the top of his shirt, his tie already off. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” Dorian admits, then stops, laying his hands flat to his sides. “I think I’m nervous.” He frowns, almost a glare. John puts the effort into keeping their eyes connected.

“Nervous, huh? You’re tellin’ me.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“Jeez,” John mutters, moving over to stand next to Dorian, leaning against the hood of his own car. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, lighting one and placing it to his lips.

“I didn’t even realize people still smoked those things,” Dorian says, shuffling away.

“Yeah, a couple of feet aren’t gonna keep you outta range, punk,” John says, taking a drag and shaking his head. “I’m old-fashioned, alright. Mom used to smoke in the kitchen. Reminds me of how _she_ made breakfast, but she wasn’t as good at it as you are.” John glances sideways at Dorian and catches him half-smiling but it evaporates in a quick second. John flicks the cigarette and rolls his neck, taking another drag. He blows the smoke in the opposite direction of Dorian.

“Are you just going to try to bribe me to come home with you tonight? If that’s all you perceive me as, John, then perhaps we’re not meant to be partners.”

John lets himself groan this time, throwing his head back and rubbing his forehead with his free hand. “I gotta killer migraine, okay? And I’m gonna be honest with you, I feel like I’m half a person and my leg fucking hurts. It feels like it’s there but it’s not, and I know it’s not. It’s terrifying.” He takes another drag and lets the cigarette burn out between his fingers. “I’m shit. I’m shit at being good.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Dorian asks, glaring with his lips pursed together, eyebrows furrowed and slanted.

John glances at Dorian and the guilt is back. Dorian’s glare dissipates into a frown, and he shoves his hands into his pockets. “It means I messed up,” John admits. “It means I said something really fuckin’ shitty to you, and that I feel like shit because of it.” He drops the cigarette butt and crushes it under his boot. “You’re the most real thing I got goin’ for me, Dorian. I don’t really wanna sabotage that. Partner, friend, whatever else.”

“Get in the car.”

“What?” Now John’s the one frowning as Dorian opens the passenger side door and jerks his chin to the other side of the vehicle.

“I said, get in the car,” Dorian demands as he sits down, slams the door, and straps his seatbelt. John hustles to the other side and does as he’s told, starting the ignition. There’s silence between the two as John pulls out of the parking lot and heads down the street, instinctively heading towards his apartment. If Dorian asked him to go somewhere else, he would in a heartbeat. That’s an important realization.

“Fuck.”

“What?” Dorian asks.

“Nothing, just…Yeah.”

Dorian shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Did you wanna say something?” John asks, glancing over at his partner.

Dorian is staring out the window. “Do you think I’m oblivious?”

“No.”

Dorian lets out a huff of breath through his nose.

“Do you think I don’t know how you see me?”

John frowns and then cringes. “I think you see more than you let on,” he answers, treading with care. “I think I mess up and you let it go.”

“The thing about being a DRN, John, is that I feel. That’s the main component, when they made me that’s what they wanted. But humans, they didn’t think of the consequences, did they?” Dorian is staring at John now but John keeps his eyes trained on the road. “None of those scientists thought that maybe a robot who had those capacities could be even more dangerous than a _real_ person. They didn’t consider the consequences of creating a robot who could love and hate and perceive itself as just that – a robot. I know I’m not like you. I know you can’t help but look at me and wonder if I’m no different from those poor men and women, created only to serve the purposes of humans but expected to bond and feel. I was made to love you, John. But to you, I could be written off as a kink.” Dorian sighs and John tries to loosen his grip on the steering wheel. They drive in silence and Dorian doesn’t protest when they reach John’s apartment complex. John parks in his garage space behind the building and they sit together, car off, for a long moment.

“I’m sorry,” John says.

Dorian is watching him.

“I don’t understand it. I don’t understand everything myself, you know, I’m just…” He bites his lip, rests his head back on the seat and runs a hand through his hair. “You’re not _like_ the other –”

“You’re wrong,” Dorian snaps, cutting him off. “I am like them. I am like every other creation you call a robot. Just like _you’re_ like every other person you call human. And you’re like me, and I’m like you. You can’t just differentiate us and say human versus synthetic and think you never have to be responsible for those claims when shit doesn’t go down the way you like. Even I know that, so how on earth don’t you?”

John gets out of the car, slouching, and heads to the stairwell in the back of the apartment. He keeps going when he hears Dorian slam the car down and walk after him. Dorian catches up and opens the door for John.

“Don’t,” John growls, “treat me like I can’t handle myself.”

Dorian opens and closes his mouth before saying, “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

John doesn’t know how to react to that, so he doesn’t, instead beginning to climb the stairs. Dorian follows, always two steps behind him, moving much slower. It should be humiliating, but at the very least John’s on the second floor and not the third or the fifth. As he reaches the door to his apartment, he tugs his keys from his front breast pocket of his jacket and unlocks the door.

“Come on in.”

Dorian follows and they both step into the spacious apartment. John throws his keys on the kitchen table before opening the refrigerator. There’s nothing there worth eating, but his stomach growls anyway. He groans, and Dorian sits down.

“I suppose the honeymoon phase couldn’t last forever,” Dorian says and John turns to glare.

“The hell does that mean?”

Dorian looks back at him and smiles for the first time that day. John clenches his teeth. “It’s a joke,” Dorian clarifies, “This is our first real fight.”

“Is it?” John says, deciding then to make coffee. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Dorian doesn’t chuckle like he usually does and John starts up the pot of his darkest brew. He makes the coffee in silence, glad to have something to do with his hands. The pill had given him some relief in his leg, which now just gives him a dull ache, but hadn’t done much for the headache. Maybe it’s a craving induced headache. It takes the coffee three minutes to brew and he pours himself a mug.

“Do you want any?”

“Coffee is too hot for my systems. But thank you for asking.”

“Jesus Christ,” John mumbles as he finally sits down at the kitchen table. “Fine. I’m sorry, man, okay? I don’t get it, I really don’t. I don’t know how to act around you when we’re – like this. Whatever. I can’t even put a name to it.” He pauses. “I don’t want to.” He picks up his mug, wrapping his fingers and squeezing it. The heat spreads to the tips of his fingers and across his palms and he takes a sip. It burns his tongue – of course. “I don’t want to put a name to it,” he says, setting down the mug and sighing. “I was content before. I like you, Dorian. I want you to know that.”

Dorian drops his gaze and lowers his chin, but still says nothing.

“I like _you_ ,” John emphasizes. “Not the sex.” He sips his coffee and it stings his already burnt tongue, but it’s almost the perfect temperature now. He takes a longer gulp and the heat runs down his throat. “Not that I’m complaining about the sex,” he clarifies with a half-grin.

Dorian looks up. “It was an asshole thing to say,” he says, “and I’m still mad at you.”

John nods. Fair enough. He’s had fights with lovers – girlfriends, boyfriends, anyone in between – but nothing was quite like this. And he’s never felt this self-aware, either, watching Dorian who’s still frowning, deep and saddened. He knows he’s hurt the DRN, and he doesn’t know exactly how to absorb that feeling. There’s regret, a sense of deep embarrassment that riddles through John's chest. Discomfort of sitting across from someone who he’s hurt, and who it’s obvious he’s hurt. Is Dorian a lover? That’s another question altogether.

“Are you going to stay here?” John asks, figuring it’s a fair question. He still doesn’t know what Dorian does when Dorian doesn’t spend the night. If Dorian doesn’t spend the night, it’ll leave John with an empty feeling.

“What do you want?”

John closes his eyes to fight the urge to roll them. “I asked you first.”

Dorian doesn’t answer, and they sit at a stalemate for at least five minutes before John breaks. “Fine. Fine, dammit, I want you to stay. What do I need to do, Dorian?” He looks up from his coffee, eyes wide and mouth downturned. “I’ll do it.”

Dorian stands and moves over to the counter, leaning his back against it. “Stand up.”

John rises.

“Come here,” Dorian says.

John steps in front of him, maybe six inches of space between their bodies. Not too close, but close enough to imply intimacy.

“Kiss me.”

John doesn’t even hesitates, resting a hand on Dorian’s cheek and then holding his chin between his thumb and forefinger, shifting forward so their bodies lock together as well as their mouths. Dorian doesn’t move except his lips which part enough for John to slide his tongue between. He nudges and Dorian’s mouth opens further, reacting to John’s heat and interest. Neither of them hurries, Dorian’s hand finding John’s waist and gripping his jacket, both of John’s hands holding Dorian’s hips. The height difference is almost indistinguishable, and John takes a risk and rocks his hips into Dorian’s.

Dorian’s other hand slides through John’s hair and he moves his tongue along John’s. John feels overheated against the relative coolness of Dorian’s. John’s still hungry but there’s another hunger rising in him as well, and he gets Dorian’s bottom lip between his teeth, tugs – Dorian laughs and turns away, and the kiss breaks, though they remain close.

“I’m still angry,” Dorian whispers, hands cupping John’s face. John nods. “You should kiss me again,” he says, and John doesn’t give him time to breathe before he presses his mouth to Dorian’s again. This kiss is similar in terms of passion but there’s something that John can’t quite place. 

Dorian is smiling against John’s mouth and that’s half of it. John’s heart is thrumming and the tension melts out of his body as Dorian adjusts to slide his leg between John’s, rubbing his thigh against John’s crotch.

“Do you forgive me?” John asks, pressing his forehead against Dorian’s. Dorian’s breath is coming in short, quick gasps, and he tilts his head up to touch his nose to John’s.

“Not yet. But you’re getting closer.”

John grins at Dorian’s teasing and wraps his arms around Dorian’s shoulder, pulling him close and into a third kiss. It’s warm and comforting, and it’s obvious already that Dorian has forgiven him, but John doesn’t mind proving himself. Dorian turns them around with a strong grip and John’s breath hitches as Dorian presses him against the counter.

“You alright standing?” John asks, breathless.

“That’s supposed to be my question,” Dorian says, kissing him once and then again. “I’m in tip-top shape, I could do it anywhere.”

John laughs. “Of course you are.”

The conversation dies as Dorian presses his leg into John’s crotch again. John shifts, gasping when Dorian’s hand palms his cock through his jeans.

“That’s good,” Dorian says, rubbing his hand up and down. John tries to breathe through his mouth without losing his sense of self, but he’s already too hard and all he can think of is Dorian’s mouth and how it kisses and how his hands work. “Is this you making it up to me?”

John leans forward, resting his head in the crook of Dorian’s neck. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll make it up to you,” he says because it seems like the right thing to say. “Please. Please, okay?”

Dorian laughs and undoes John’s jeans, sliding his hand under the fabric of John’s jeans and his boxers, wrapping his fingers around his cock. John gasps and squeezes his eyes closed, gripping the back of Dorian’s jacket to keep himself standing.

“Please, what?” Dorian says, brushing his mouth against John’s ear, teasing the lobe with his teeth.

“Christ, you can’t do that,” John struggles to say. “Please jack me off, please make me come, please – ”

Dorian slides his hand in a long upward stroke, thumbing the head of John’s cock. He doesn’t say anything else, the words sinking away with the heat shivering through his entire body.

“Good,” Dorian says, stroking his spare hand through John’s hair. “I will.”

Dorian continues to pump John’s cock wordlessly, John panting against his neck. The tension that had built up between them in the last few days feels almost impossible for John to even grasp, particularly in this state. But also, it adds to the intensity of John’s building orgasm. Dorian is close, their bodies slotted together as if there’s no space in the room, and John’s palms are sweaty. He scrambles to grasp the edge of the counter as Dorian makes another torturous stroke.

“Jesus Christ, Dorian,” John manages, his lips and mouth dry as he breathes against Dorian’s warming skin. “Please, I can’t…”

“Can’t what?”

“Can’t think of what else to say,” John says, gritting his teeth. He rocks his hips up into Dorian’s fingers and Dorian lets John fuck his fist without complaint. Calm fingers continue to stroke through John’s hair, careful thumb teasing John closer to the edge of his orgasm.

“It’s okay,” Dorian says, still against John’s ear. He kisses his temple. “I want you to come, okay?”

John nods and continues to thrust his hips helplessly, eyes still squeezed shut. Dorian quickens his pace and for a moment it’s too much and John wants to yell, get him to stop, but he forces himself through it, legs shaking and sweat forming on every last patch of skin on his body.

John comes with a broken shout that fades into a weak groan. He collapses against Dorian, who holds him up with one arm, their bodies still close.

“That was good,” John says after what feels like too long to be standing in silence with come on his jeans. Dorian’s fingers are still wrapped loosely around his cock but he releases them when John speaks up. They both shift in tune with each other and Dorian smiles as John leans against the kitchen counter instead, both hands gripping the edge of the counter.

“I forgive you,” Dorian says, readjusting John’s underwear and jeans. John would usually complain, but this time he stands in silence and allows Dorian to take care of him before he turns on the sink and washes his hands.

“You a neat freak?” he asks. His voice feels pale.

Dorian doesn’t respond. John is okay with that.

“I’m going to make it up to you,” John says, clearing his throat. “I need some water first, but yeah. Damn.”

Dorian says, “You don’t have to do that.”

John shakes his head as he grabs a glass from the top cupboard and stands next to Dorian, moving the faucet head and filling his glass with tap water. He takes two deep swallows. “It’s not a matter of what I _have_ to do. It’s what I want to do. I have to drink water,” he says, lifting his glass to show his point. “But I don’t have to have sex with you.”

“Alright, alright.” Dorian is smiling. “Fine. If that’ll make you feel better, I’ll let you make it up to me.”

John reaches for Dorian, a hand on the side of his face, and leans over to kiss him. Dorian kisses him back. It’s mostly just chaste.

“We’ll figure it out,” John says.

He means it.


End file.
